


dirty on the ground is what i need

by brophigenia



Category: Stranger Things (TV 2016)
Genre: Blow Jobs, Canon-Typical Violence, Dirty Talk, Drunk Sex, M/M, Makeup, Recreational Drug Use, Semi-Public Sex, but he's mean, steve is my baby okay, we all know he's mean
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-25
Updated: 2018-12-25
Packaged: 2019-09-27 06:32:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,869
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17157008
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/brophigenia/pseuds/brophigenia
Summary: “What’s a pretty thing like you doin’ in a shithole likethis?”(AKA, Billy and Steve at a party.)





	dirty on the ground is what i need

**Author's Note:**

  * For [justdk](https://archiveofourown.org/users/justdk/gifts).



> For Deeks, Merry Christmas! I know it's that LATE LATE but hopefully it's also that GOOD GOOD.

“What’s a pretty thing like you doin’ in a shithole like  _ this?”   _ Hargrove is too close to him. He can practically taste the fucker’s hairspray, he’s so close, charming some drunk sophomore. Mindy, Mandy, Melanie—  _ somebody. _ She’s wearing purple lipstick. Billy might be wearing red, for how whorish his stupid fucking mouth looks. Dark and  _ wet.  _

Steve rolled his eyes, takes another sip of his beer. It’s shit. Warm. None of these idiots thought to put the keg on ice in the tub  _ before _ cracking it open. The room is too warm, too, sticky and rank with the crush of too many bodies. Too many breaths being exhaled. Too much  _ humanity.  _

He has no tolerance for it anymore. 

He used to think this was  _ living.  _ Parties and bodies and music and everyone saying his name like he’s the only person that matters.

Now there’s nothing  _ but _ tolerating it, and counting the moments until he can be alone again, alone or with the increasingly-narrow population of Hawkins, Indiana that he can stand to be around for more than ten minutes without busting a fucking headache. 

He thinks about putting his sunglasses on, and decides it would attract more attention than it would help. Mallorie-Macie-Marcella giggles high and frantic, obviously out of her fucking league with whatever Hargrove is whispering into her ear. Her eyes are wide. Her mascara is clumped together. She’s probably never even  _ seen  _ a dick before. Steve feels bad for her, kind of. She doesn’t remind him of Nancy, but he can picture Nancy swooping in and freeing her from Hargrove’s clutches. Because she’s nice like that, even if she wouldn’t want to hang with the girl, after. 

“Hey, Hargrove,” Steve said on a sigh, irritated that he’s been relegated to white knight. He’s sick of the role already. He’s not _ nice like that.  _ “Why don’t you, like, get the fuck away from me?” Hargrove rounded on him like a dog on the hunt, bloodshot eyes and that fucking  _ mouth,  _ parted in surprise and already drawing back from his teeth. 

Maddie-Mackie-Mimi took the opportunity to whisk herself away, no doubt to giggle with her girlfriends about how Billy Hargrove wanted to slather her in goat’s blood and fuck her upside down and sideways, what a _cad,_ but what could you expect from _California_ boys, anyhow? This would probably become an oft-told story, another in her rotation of wine-drunk middle-aged musings. Probably she’d lose her virginity to some Bobby Nobody who’d never left Indiana, and then she’d marry him after a semester at the community college one town over. She’d pop out two point five kids and get pudgy around the middle, he’d lose his hair and sleep with his receptionist, and she’d go to her grave wondering _what if_ _I_ had _let Billy Hargrove fuck me silly at some stupid party?_

Godfuckingdammit, Steve needed to get  _ laid. _

“What’d you say, King Steve?” Billy sneered, squaring out his shoulders. He had eyes like the devil. His mouth was so fucking  _ red.  _

Steve wanted to fuck him up. 

“I said,” Steve enunciated, dropping his shitty plastic cup of shitty warm beer onto the carpet carelessly, squaring his own shoulders. “How about you  _ get the fuck away from me?”  _  There was a fire in his gut. He was full of fury, full of  _ menace.  _ Goddamn.  _ Goddamn.  _ Suffocating. He was fucking  _ suffocating.  _ Across town Nancy was fucking Jonathan Byers and could he even blame her? Fuck, Steve would probably fuck Jonathan Byers, too. 

...If he was  _ Nancy, _ that was. 

Billy shoved him, and then wrapped his fist up in Steve’s striped tee shirt, dragging him in close. So close he could see each individual pore on Billy’s face. “And we all gotta bow down to you, huh? Do what you say?” Billy was definitely drunker than Steve; either he had more of a taste for warm beer than Steve did, or he’d showed up to the party already blitzed. Even odds. Same difference. 

“Are you wearing  _ makeup?” _ Steve asked him, mouth tugging into its meanest smirk. Low, but with a threat of getting louder. There was a fucking reason he’d owned this place, once. And he’d not lost it to Billy Hargrove, no matter what the fuck anybody thought. You couldn’t lose something you didn’t care about having anymore in the first place. 

Billy’s eyes, which were  _ definitely _ framed in lashes that had recently seen a mascara wand, widened. His red mouth flattened. He dropped his grip on Steve’s shirt like he’d been burned, and then spat at Steve’s feet with force, turning on his heel and going off, making noise as soon as he hit the kitchen, bellowing demands for beer and entertainment. The new king among them; a foreigner come to fuck their women and hold dominion over their men. 

Steve ran a hand through his hair, let himself get dragged into a game of quarters, let himself smoke a joint with a couple baseball players on the porch, and then let himself  _ finally _ call it a fucking night, looking forward to how the weed would make sleep come that much easier, like he was treading through water. 

He was curling his fingers familiarly into the handle of his door when Billy  _ fucking  _ Hargrove spoke up from behind him, leering even before Steve got a look at him. “Hey  _ Harrington, _ wait up.” 

He thought about leaving anyway, but the rabid dog in the back of his throat whispered that leaving was tantamount to running away, and Steve was fucking  _ done  _ running away. He wished for the weight of Nancy’s bat in his hands. Imagined crushing Billy Hargrove’s fucking skull with it, and was unsurprised to find himself getting hard in his jeans at the thought. He was fucked up, and he was  _ fucked up.  _ Before it was something he could’ve pretended away, sown his wild oats at a university two states away, used up all the venom dripping from his teeth and then settled down, come home, forgotten all of it forever. Shackled to somebody like Maggie-Marnie-Martie, choking on suburban mediocrity instead of all this cruelty, all this bloodlust. 

This wasn’t Before. This was  _ After,  _ and Steve knew that it was only a matter of time before he’d be consumed by his demons. He didn’t think about getting old anymore. Didn’t think about being trapped in Hawkins. He wasn’t entirely sure he’d live to see twenty one. 

(He wasn’t entirely sure he  _ wanted to.)  _

He leaned back against his car and waited for Billy to appear out of the dark, head tipped back so he could glare down his nose, eyes half lidded and heavy. 

Hargrove was as hatefully half-dressed as he ever was, hair in disarray and teeth peroxide-white. He looked fucking ridiculous, a teen dream from some half-baked movie, the kind that Steve would’ve taken Nancy to,  _ Before.  _

(Had there ever been a Before, with Nance? She’d known from the start, and their whole _thing_ had been tangled up in dead _disappeared_ friends and horror movie shit from the beginning. Had they ever had a chance?) 

“What.” Steve bit out, and clenched his jaw alongside his fists when Billy eyed him in something like menace. 

“You’re not gonna tell anybody about  _ anything.”  _ Billy stated, and obviously he meant it as a threat. The fact that he was saying it bared his underbelly, though, and Steve had always  _ (always)  _ loved an easy target the most. Loved to watch the  _ flinch. _ The look someone gave when you hurt them so bad you saw your own sickness in their eyes, reflected back like a mirror. 

“About  _ what,  _ exactly, Hargrove? You raiding mommy’s makeup drawer?” He’d  _ missed _ it, the cool remoteness that came from being such hot shit that nobody even tried to fight back. Nancy had made him a better person, but here was Billy Hargrove, dragging him back down again. 

Billy  _ flinched  _ with such violence that it was almost like a punch, and for a moment Steve was breathless with it, so fucking  _ pleased.  _ So hard, too, and his light wash jeans were doing fuck-all to conceal the fact. What did he care? He cocked his hips like he’d done in every locker room since his balls had dropped,  _ go ahead and look, motherfucker. You like it? Goddamn.  _

Except Billy’s eyes caught on his hips and didn’t look away, not to snarl or shake his head, lasering in with the kind of focus that told Steve more about how things were than any of their interactions thus far had. 

“You’ve got to be fucking  _ kidding me,”  _ he barked on a laugh, and Billy’s neck was bloodred, redder than his  _ mouth,  _ and Steve was  _ high  _ on it, fucking  _ soaring. God, God, _ he thought in the back of his mind, the place that wasn’t swollen with smug viciousness,  _ somebody fucking stop me.  _

Nobody stopped him. Billy came closer, unsteady on his feet, looking like he wasn’t sure whether he wanted to fuck or fight, spread his legs or commit murder. 

Steve could relate. 

“You’re… not gonna tell anybody.” Billy said again, slower, paraphrasing himself and sounding faraway. Like he’d lost the battle for control over himself. 

(Again, Steve could relate.) 

“About  _ which part?”  _ Steve asked, soft and  _ nasty,  _ and then Billy Hargrove was on his knees with that red fucking mouth open and he mumbled  _ any of it  _ before tearing open the front of Steve’s Wranglers and going for the gold. 

…if they awarded Olympic medals for cocksucking, that was. 

Billy was  _ hot  _ for it, a wild fucking animal, somehow managing to pull off  _ furious and homicidal  _ while moaning around the cock bumping into his tonsils, and Steve was furious with it too, hand tangled in Billy’s hair and filth spewing from his mouth, shit he’d never say to  _ anybody,  _ but this was what Billy fucking Hargrove did to him. Made everything just.  _ Easy.  _ It was easy to do this, to fuck into Billy’s mouth and call him a  _ filthy fucking cockslut whore,  _ pressed up to the side of his car and not caring that there was a party raging a couple hundred yards away. 

Nothing mattered, up to the point where he came down Billy’s throat and watched him gag and choke and spit it up onto the grass in the dark while he jerked himself off, forehead gleaming with sweat and mascaraed lashes fluttering. 

He was so pretty it made Steve itch to bust his nose, knock out a couple teeth,  _ something.  _

“Good talk, Harrington.” Billy said, hoarse and raspy like he’d swallowed a mouthful of tacks and not  _ King Steve’s  _ dick. He rose, zipping his jeans back up with one hand. He patted Steve’s ass companionably with the other, a  _ good game  _ like they’d played an especially wicked game of basketball, ambling off with only the slightest hitch in his step to indicate anything was amiss beyond the usual intoxication. 

It wasn’t until he was in the driver’s seat that Steve realized Billy had used his spunk-covered hand, and he punched the wheel with bloody fucking  _ violence  _ feeling the wet spot on his ass meet the Beamer’s leather seats. 

“Fucking  _ Hargrove,”  _ he swore, and drove home thinking darkly of the next party, the next time they’d cross paths. 

**Author's Note:**

> follow me @ brophigenia.tumblr.com


End file.
